Samhain
by ilex-ferox
Summary: Something topical for 31st October or 1st November. "Stay back, human. You don't know what you're dealing with."


_The characters belong to Eoin Colfer. With thanks to Academician and a passing nod to Euripedes._

**Samhain**

The frost, unexpectedly early this year, crisped the grass as the leaping flames reflected off the crystalline ice, like sparks of magic. Real magic was there too, blue sparks wreathed the moving figures as they circled the fire in an unearthly evocation of a morris dance. Artemis was vividly reminded that this dance was older, more sinister, than that medieval tradition - centuries, millennia older, rooted in an ancient earth magic that predated human history and lingered in myths and race memories that made men uneasy in the dark and sent frightened children to the safety of their mothers. It wasn't only the cold that made him shiver. There was a power here he could almost touch, that resonated through the ground and air around him and whispered along his nerve endings; a power that hinted at a lack of control, a lawlessness that, if not malevolent, was not benign; that owed nothing to reason. This was the ancient magic of the faerie, not the controlled exercise of power he was used to but the elemental power of earthquake and storm, the force that pushed mushrooms through concrete or seed shoots through feet of soil. It conjured up images of the Pythian seer, the Witch of Endor, the Bacchae, mountain altars and sacrificial fires. Each figure before him was absorbing that power until they were charged with the magic. It occurred to him that he had been unwise to come but he was caught now in the tendrils of enchantment and, like a limed bird, unable to break free.

He saw faces he recognised but they seemed more alien than ever before, until at last he saw her, appearing through the writhing coils of smoke, insubstantial, wraith-like, mottled in the firelight like a spotted snake. He'd known she would be there - fire-kindler, sidhe - and he knew he couldn't leave. Knew too, that it was her magic that was resonating inside him, an echo of their previous merging, and drawing from somewhere within him a trace of the power he'd thought lost. He watched her, pointed features side-lit by the fire against the chiaroscuro background of the smoke like a de la Tour painting, her eyes monochrome in the night. As he was vividly aware of her, he knew she too had sensed something, a presence as alien to her as she now seemed to him. There was an almost panther-like stillness about her as she withdrew from the circle of figures, head cocked, body alert; mentally searching for what had touched her. He backed against the ivy-clad trunk of a tall pine and waited as she approached.

"What are you doing here?" Her hissed question both accused and threatened him.

"It seemed too good an opportunity to resist." He tried for lightness. "After all, not everything is contained in the Book."

Her eyes narrowed. "No, it's not, and for good reason. This is the old magic, not something to be revealed to strangers, to a Milesian." She spat the last word at him, venom laced in the name. "This is the night of the Tuatha, when the Gods are closest, when the doors between the worlds are open, when our power is greatest and our old magic returns. You know nothing of this, nor should you know. I warned you before that you didn't know what you were dealing with." Sudden sparks flew up from the fire, turning her hair and skin golden, underlining the ferocity of her words.

"You know I can be trusted, I won't speak of it." The reassurance sounded weak to his own ears and he was surprised by her response.

"Yes, I know you won't, but you mustn't be seen; these rites are secret."

"You can trust me," he repeated it like a mantra, willing her to believe him.

Her hollow laugh did nothing to reassure him. He had a sudden vision of his mother and knew her memories were reaching into his mind. "I can't leave." It was both protest and excuse.

"No." That was both acknowledgement and order. "But you'd better be well hidden. This place isn't safe," and she looked meaningfully at his footprints in the frost and then up at the lower branches of the tree, watching him as he retreated until he was concealed among the pine cones, then walking back over his tracks, blurring them with her own before rejoining the circle.

He wondered why it was only now that he realised he'd never seen her out of uniform as he watched the hem of her purple shift brushing over the grass. Was that what made her and her companions so alien? There was no advanced technology here, no sign that these were modern creatures, civilized beings. This was the fairies at their most elemental, something out of mythology and legend, darker than he'd ever seen them. As she'd said, this was the night when the doors between the worlds parted and the dead walked among the living.

The fairies had ceased moving now and stood, hand-linked, about the fire. He recognized a magic circle but this one was emitting power not receiving it, the blue tendrils creeping their way into the serpentine flames. As he watched, shapes began to form, flickeringly insubstantial at first, growing solider as the magic touched them. Awestruck, he saw figures of once living creatures forming: not only saw but felt them in that portion of his brain that had once held human magic. Somewhere in that consciousness he felt a presence he'd known, and saw Root's image separating from the flames. He watched as a blue thread snaked from Holly towards a willowy creature and knew this was her mother, aware of the longing connecting them as they stretched their arms towards each other, feeling the summoning power that had drawn her from then to now. Other beings were emerging, responding to the blue lines of forces from those who'd known them. She'd been right, this was not for him, not something he should have seen; he had no right to be here. This was not just intrusion: it was sacrilege.

As if in response to his thoughts, the ring of power began to flicker, ebbing, the figures becoming less substantial, wavering between the worlds. He could feel the shock and despair emanating from the circle at the realisation that something was wrong, some taint had affected the spell. He saw her look towards him and her accusation hit him so strongly he could feel it – and so could the others. More heads turned his way, hounds sniffing a scent. The anger flooded over him with a savage brutality that forced the air from his lungs as they turned to face him and red sparks, brighter than the flames, flared within the blue. He fought uselessly against the bellowing power that burned away both will and reason until, mindless, he moved towards them speechless and unresisting: drawn to the circle. Voicelessly he screamed his terror as he felt himself being absorbed by them and saw the fire suddenly blaze between the earth and heavens. The Hunter had become the Hunted.

He could feel what was about to happen and strained despairingly to call out to her, to her mind, willing her to hear, _It's me, Holly, your friend_**, **but her eyes were unseeing and her mind closed to him and he could no longer control his own. Remorselessly the summoning absorbed him, pulling him into the circle, draining him to build the link to the dead, giving his substance to their insubstantiality. He felt the magic entering, using, him until his cry of agony was consumed in their cry of triumph as the dead walked living from the flames. He felt the power flow through him, searing him, even as the others' joy resounded through the link. He could sense the union of beings long separated as the power ebbed and flowed through and around him, and wondered if he would survive until dawn drowned out the wild magic in the rationality of day.

It was next morning when she arrived at the manor, bearing an unconscious Artemis in her arms.  
"What happened?" Butler was aghast.  
She looked blankly at the body she held and then at the bodyguard, straining for memory.  
"I don't know."


End file.
